Last year at this time I talked about how the onset of spring brought about a rush of tasks that need to be done right now. This year is no different but I have in the intervening twelve months developed a more laissez faire mood about the whole thing. Last year I worked myself into hysterical fibrillations over the amount of work needed to be done as compared to the time it would take to do it well. This year? Not so much.
Successful projects included the chicken coop (in the summer) and the beehives(in the previous winter); but everything else, from the greenhouse to sowing the wildflower stripes, got done late; or not at all. So this year, with all of the infrastructure in place, I feel more leisure to complete the chores that spring has swept in on her gentle breezes.
But not really.
Because, as I’ve learned, the work never stops. Never.
To understand why, we first have to look at the climatic conditions here in the Pacific Northwest. We suffer under a so-called Mediterranean climate characterized by cool, moist(ish) winters and dry, warm(ish) summers. The weather – with the exception of November – is really quite pleasant when stacked up against anyplace east of here. But there’s a drawback to living in the place that winter forgot: nothing stops growing.
It was like that when I lived in Florida, too. But here, the constant growth is insidious because you don’t see most of it happening, and then it’s too late. The problem stems from a seasonal reversal of dormancy. Certain plants, trees and shrubs, enter their dormant period, as expected, with the onset of the cool darkness of autumn. Other plants, like grasses, have their dormant period during the parched summer months. They still grow a bit but, in August and September, they’re really just phoning it in.
In fall, when the trees are losing their leaves and getting ready for the big sleep, the rains start, the grasses wake up, shake off their weary, parched blades, and go to town. But it’s not so obvious. Where the growth of spring is a rich, verdant canopy of blades and flowers, the winter is all about roots; lots and lots of roots. Lots. While the top part of the plant is green, but short, the roots are spreading like a cold through a pre-school. Nothing is left unaffected.
As part of the maintenance this spring we had to move some plants which, due to my lack of experience and an ingrained unwillingness to ask anybody else’s opinion, did not thrive. They were alive and starting to send up new shoots but, because of where I planted them, they remained weak and struggling. Except for the roots. The pitiful excuse for a rhubarb I planted (after I managed to kill off the first one I tried) had a root structure that a giant sequoia would envy. No matter how far away from the plant I dug, there were more roots.
And it didn’t stop there.
Everywhere I turned, small weeds, clumps of grass, newly sprouting blackberry and lupine, everything, had thrust their tiny leaves into the sun; and grew roots.
The grass alone was rhizome Hell.
Last year I planted two asparagus beds, one of which failed miserably. The one that survived with its straggly fronds and spindly stalks is now a carpet of green. Sadly, none of that green was due to actual asparagus. It was all weeds and grass so dense that no soil was visible along the whole row. None.
I must admit I had known the bed needed some attention but, seemingly overnight, the problem had changed from one of nipping a few weeds in the bud, so to speak, to the equivalent of cutting timber with teaspoons. The problem? You guessed it. Roots.
The asparagus, whose leftover tops were mere inches above ground, had roots which extended down into the Cascadia Subduction Zone. Intertwined with the desirable asparagus roots were a birds nest of others: grass, lupine, artillery plant, chickweed, and on and on and on; all of which needed to be teased away from the asparagus with the same level of care you would hope somebody scraping plaque out of your coronary artery would use. It took four hours to clean out a twenty-foot bed. Now, two days later, I need to go over it again to rip out the weeds that had previously been shaded by the ones I just removed.
It goes on and on. The “racetrack” – our landscape feature which will someday be a 150-foot bed of lavender and heather – looks like a lawn. This would be no big deal except that when we built it we put down a layer of landscape fabric topped with four inches of bark mulch. As far as the grass and blackberries are concerned we did nothing at all. The “logo” – another feature contained in the racetrack’s infield – same thing. Last year I dug it all out removing every trace of grass I could find. This year, it looks like last year before I started.
It’s a no-win situation. In fact, since the tractor fell into my lap in September, 2011, I mowed the place every month with the exception of November, 2012 when it rained every day. It still needed to be mowed but I was just so not into it.
It is the same wherever I look – in the orchard, around the beehives, growing up through the driveway and gravel paths – nothing but weeds and grass.
But all was not bleak on the weed front. Among the luxurious spring growth was a single glimmer of hope: hundreds of square feet of weed-free, loamy soil. It was where we grew the squash and cucumbers last year and has no weeds at all.
Back when I rototilled the garden and stripes I basically took every weed I touched and, as if by magic, turned it into thousands. Every tiny speck of root severed from the plants I chopped up in their countless thousands, grew itself a whole new plant. Initially this was kind of pretty as many of the plants were wildflowers and we got some surprise blooms where none were expected. As the season progressed, however, the new growth threatened to overwhelm the entire farm.
In one particularly large area of the garden it was clear that there would be no hope of ever getting ahead of the weeds. So, I pulled a page from the playbook of history and made the whole area a dead zone. Which was easy to do and – even better because I’m a cheapskate – almost cost free. I used those two enemies of life everywhere to scorch the earth: cardboard and straw.
It’s really almost miraculous in its effectiveness. Throw down a layer of discarded boxes pinched from the recycling bin down at Ace Hardware, cover them up with a few inches of straw from Bay Hay and Feed to keep the cardboard moist, and – Presto! – the weeds get smothered, the worms come up to feast on the weeds and the cardboard, and after a few months you are left with nothing but a thick mulch of decomposing straw. Perfect.
But I needed another arrow in my quiver to completely subjugate the weeds: namely, The Weed Dragon. No, the Weed Dragon isn’t some clever Chia Pet using dandelions instead of grass but a three-foot long metal tube with a ten-foot hose that you hook up to a twenty-pound tank of propane and blast the living shit out of the weeds all the while making a noise like a 747 at full throttle. It is a hoot! Fire it up and hit the turbo button and the weeds wilt like advancing troops facing flamethrowers in an old black-and-white war movie. It takes a couple of passes to finish them off but that’s just more fun to be had. So far I’ve only set myself on fire once. No, really.
Sadly, it’s a bit too effective and now the driveway and gravel paths are devoid of greenery.
Which brings us to the vineyard. As you recall, the plan is to plant a few vines and whip up some wine so I don’t have to be subject to the expense of actually paying to catch a buzz. The area selected for the vineyard is about 1,200 square feet of sunny, sloping ground completely covered in grass. At long last, I was able to bring some practical, successful experience to bear and over the past six weeks have paved the space with cardboard and straw; much to the dismay of the weeds and the delight of the chickens as all sorts of bugs have taken up residence under the straw where they’re easy pickin’s for the peeps.
The only downside of the project was that down at the Ace, they all think I’m nuts. Twice a week I’d roll in, fill up the back seat with cardboard boxes, and drive away. It was an experience steeped in irony though. One of the things Ace sells a lot of is Roundup Weed and Grass Killer made by those unprincipled scumbags at Monsanto. Ace puts the toxic brew on the shelves and give away the boxes to me. Everybody else sprays their weeds with Roundup at fifteen-bucks a pint. I kill all my weeds with the boxes the stuff ships in.
For free.
Is this a great country or what?